


parasitic

by transgression



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Body Worship, F/F, Hero Worship, Self Confidence, Unrequited Love, lament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgression/pseuds/transgression
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is the cicada’s waking keen, the pollen in the milky residue of a flashlight beam. She burns you, sears you, takes your bones and veins and melts them within you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	parasitic

 

           You have always prided yourself in the idea- (the belief, the theorem, you correct yourself,) - that you know just how important the palpability of power and strength is. You never tried to explain, because, in its essence, it is unexplainable. Training is not restricted to the body. To be honest with you and whoever might be your competitor, you would say that visuals are half the battle, because they are. Fighting with a strong stance and weak persona coagulates like spoiled milk. Weakness is weakness in any sense.

            Fast-twitch muscles, as much of the public understands, make for show and force. Slow-twitch makes for endurance and power. You must have a balance. You’re sure you could make a religious and striking analogy, but you have lamented enough on your own.  

            In these studies, you have destroyed your body. You are a machine, a motor; a slave to your ambitions. Not that you would ever consider regret, no- but you could never be beautiful in a conventional sense. If you lost your bulk, your strength, your skin would be endlessly flawed. You are lucky to have but scars.

            This is why you are drowning.

            She is a study in perfection. She always had been, and always will be. She is the cicada’s waking keen, the pollen in the milky residue of a flashlight beam. There is no day where she does not stun you. She has the strength that can only be described in the essences; qualia and synesthesia. She makes you ache. No, no, not ache- ache is after a morning run, a heavy lift. She burns you, sears you, takes your bones and veins and melts them within you.

            You can’t believe yourself. A lifetime of struggle and fight spent to reach this point and fall below the surface? It’s a rhetorical before you even think. You know the answer. Of course you have; no one man or woman can erase themselves far enough to destroy all of their weaknesses. Your weakness is flawlessness, and you reverberate with a resounding _chime,_ a tuning fork in her ensemble. 

            Yet, with all of your flaws, you understand. You still have enough dignity to not pick the flowers and kill them. Who are you to touch her, to have her, to love her? You can’t. She isn’t yours, and you are not anyone’s. You are lucky to have her time and her company, and you must kill your hunger as if you were fasting.

            And yet, you know you aren’t that strong. You can break, tear, pound, but you cannot quell. But, as others fall, as red coppery must spatters in rivulets against the steel panels of your carpeted jail cell, you realize you can at least help. _Seppuku_ , you think, comically, after a moment of self-imposed silence. Ironic for a wrestler. Typical for a person such as yourself. Futile for a clueless girl.

            Maybe she’ll read your letter, you lament, as you step into the classroom. 

 

* * *

 

                20 minutes later, covered in the heady stench of your own blood, you realize your plan might not work at all. Maybe no one will care about it, and it won’t fix anything.

                You sit.

She comes. 

**Author's Note:**

> ....


End file.
